Somewhat relieved, the associates then retired from the presence of the
yawning King, and passed down the little corridor. Here they found
Elliot keeping watch, and pacing innocently to and fro. And the
graceless page bowed their Honours down the stairs, without betraying by
his manner anything to suggest--which was, nevertheless, the simple
truth--that he had been attentively listening to as much of their recent
conversation as could be gathered through the imperfect channel afforded
by the key-hole of the door. Carteret cursed La Cloche's officious
meddling all the way to his own quarters, and on arriving there sent a
sergeant to the unfortunate clergyman, who deported him to France by the
next boat that sailed.

On returning to the room, Elliot found Charles walking up and down the
narrow floor of his room in evident excitement.

"Tom," said the King, as the page entered, "what is to do here? It seems
that I am not to be master even in this little island of Hop o' my
Thumb. They lord it over me even as they did when I was here before, as
Prince of Wales _in partibus_."

"Why then," answered the audacious youth, "I would even show them a
clean pair of heels, and take refuge with the Scots."

"The Scots who sold my father!"

"The Scots, Sir, of whom I am one," cried the page, the hot blood of a
race of Border-Barons rising to his forehead. "Am I and mine to be
confounded with a crew of cuckoldy Presbyterians? I will not listen to
any one who says so, King or no King."